and had no kinship with starch. Marjorie had never seen this kind of
white dress before; it was a part of Miss Prudence's loveliness. The face
was oval and delicate, with little color in the lips and less in the
cheeks, smooth black hair was brushed away from the thoughtful forehead
and underneath the heavily pencilled black brows large, believing, gray
eyes looked unquestioningly out upon the world. Unlike Marjorie, Miss
Prudence's questions had been answered. She would have told Marjorie that
it was because she had asked her questions of One who knew how to answer.
She was swinging in her hammock on the back porch; this back porch looked
over towards the sea, a grass plat touched the edge of the porch and then
came the garden; it was a kitchen garden, and stretched down to the flat
rocks, and beyond the flat rocks were the sand and the sea.

Marjorie had walked two miles and a half this hot afternoon to spend two
or three hours with her friend, Miss Prudence. Miss Prudence was boarding
at Marjorie's grandfather's; this was the second summer that she had been
at this farmhouse by the sea. She was the lady of whom Marjorie had
caught a glimpse so long ago in church, and called her Mercy. Throwing
aside her hat, Marjorie dropped down on the floor of the porch, so near
the gently swaying hammock that she might touch the soft, white drapery,
and in a position to watch Miss Prudence's face.

"I don't see the use of learning somethings," Marjorie began; that is, if
she could be said to begin anything with Miss Prudence, the beginning of
all her questions had been so long ago. So long ago to Marjorie; long ago
to Miss Prudence was before Marjorie was born.

There were no books or papers in the hammock. Miss Prudence had settled
herself comfortably, so comfortably that she was not conscious of
inhabiting her body when Marjorie had unlatched the gate.

"Which one of the things, for instance?"

In the interested voice there was not one trace of the delicious reverie
she had been lost in.

"Punctuation," said Marjorie, promptly; "and Mr. Holmes says we must be
thorough in it. I can't see the use of anything beside periods, and, of
course, a comma once in a while."

A gleam of fun flashed into the gray eyes. Miss Prudence was a born
pedagogue.

"I'll show you something I learned when I was a little girl; and, after
this, if you don't confess that punctuation has its work in the world, I
have nothing more to say about it."